Summer weekends packed stalls tightly around the Barmera main-street median. Scattered Riverlanders lined up for their Sunday favourites — fresh fruits, curse kits, and those plants that channel spirits from the in-between. Even Mum’s jars of purifying-honey were getting a lot of attention.
While our stall neighbours rambled on about how faeries had been getting blasted in their ripe vineyard all weekend, Mum tapped my leg, encouraging me to leave before the conversation got nasty. I’d sat at this stall enough weekends to know the ending. If Heather knew how to summon an execution goddess, she would.
I didn’t get much further than Part of Things before a swirl of powdered sugar twisted around my waist and up through my hair, weaving around unsuspecting bystanders and enticing them towards the bakery. As if anyone needed more reason to visit the Barmera Bakery than their food.
I should take you there some time. Their vanilla slice is to die for.
I couldn’t help but be a little proud of our humble little bakery. I stepped around the egar customer’s ways and face-first into a windchime. I mumbled an apology, whether it was to the windchime or the stall-owner I’ll never know.
I caught sight of an old wooden box on her table, stuffed with thick bundles of envelopes wrapped with twine. Under my fingertips they pulsed with stories to tell. Unopened. Ready to be read.
A little thunk on the box’s walnut bottom, I peeked over the letters and spied a wire wrapped pendant.
Something twisted beneath the glass, around tiny pockets of air — dancing.